by Bec McMaster
Bryn lay awake for long hours, trying to convince herself to leave. She’d promised him one night. And she’d delivered.
And now it was time to slip from the warmth of the bed, leave the safe cocoon of his arms, and vanish into the early morning mist.
Just one more minute….
She closed her eyes. If she forgot everything—the past, her betrayal, her lies—then she could almost imagine this could be forever. She had everything she’d ever wanted. Solveig owed her a confession and with it, she could clear her name and return to the gilded halls of her sisters.
But for the first time, she couldn’t force that image into her mind. She could barely even remember what the Halls of Valhalla looked like. It had been so long. And her sisters’ faces were skewed by time, leaving them mere foggy images.
Images that evaporated as the soft rasp of Tormund’s breath drew her back into the present and the embrace of the man who had shattered her over and over and over. Pleasure left her wrecked and broken, but it was the possessive nature of his embrace that threatened to do the most damage.
Because a part of her wanted to stay there. Forever.
She had to get out of here.
He was far more dangerous than she’d ever suspected.
Bryn lay still, listening to his breathing soften. Then she began to ease his arm from around her waist, slipping from the warmth of his embrace. Instantly the chill of the room bit her skin, but she was almost there, almost to the edge of the bed and—
An enormous arm clamped around her, hauling her back against his chest. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Bryn fell back into the nest she’d recently inhabited, cursing under her breath. “You’re awake.”
The rasp of stubble brushed against her nape, and then he was easing her thighs apart, slipping deft fingers between her legs and finding her still wet and slick with his seed. Fingertips brushed against her clitoris, and she shivered as her body practically melted into his embrace.
“One night, you said,” he breathed, then bit the back of her neck as she cried out. “And it’s not morning yet, my love.”
Eighteen
Morning brought with it the ache of last night’s exertions—teethmarks etched into his skin and the languid softness of spent muscles—as Tormund slowly roused. Blinking awake, he reached for the warm armful of woman he’d been dreaming about, only to find the sheets empty and cold.
“Bryn?” He lifted his head off the pillow, squinting at the slit of light that streamed through the curtains.
There was no sign of her.
Only loud footsteps outside the door and a man’s muffled curse.
The door slammed open, and Tormund sprang to alertness, reaching for the sword that was—
Not sheathed near the bed. Nor was his cousin an intruder that needed to be defended against, despite the smug grin on the bastard’s face.
Mother of Jesus.
Tormund collapsed back into the pillow, cursing under his breath as his cousin leaned a shoulder against the door jamb.
“Enjoy yourself, did you?” Haakon asked, arching a perfect golden brow.
“Until someone tried to fucking give me a heart seizure,” he grumbled, swinging his legs over the bed and waiting for his racing heartbeat to subside. Tormund scrubbed at the growing bristle of his beard.
She wasn’t here.
Indeed, there was no sign of her.
Haakon strolled inside the room, and yanked Tormund’s shirt off the chest by the door. “Here,” he said, tossing it towards Tormund. “Get dressed.” He paused. “She’s not here. I passed her on the stairs.”
“Who’s not—”
“Tall,” Haakon said, holding a hand up to his eyebrows. “About this high. Could kick a man’s head off his shoulders—or eat him alive, judging by the look of you. Bad temper. Is any of this ringing any bells? Or you can continue to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Fine. Tormund glared at him as he yanked his shirt over his head. “Maybe.”
Haakon shook his head. “She’s trouble, Tormund. You’re going to get your heart broken and nobody wants to see you sobbing into your ale of a night.”
Snatching at the trousers he found hanging on the end of the bed, he hauled them on. “There’s nothing wrong with heartbreak, cousin. It means you’re alive. And you should be one to speak.”
“I never cried into my ale.”
“No?” He pushed to his feet, yanking his buttons together. “You never shed a tear when your wife vanished. And maybe that was the problem? You’re ice, my friend. And I am fire. I was born to burn, and no matter whether she breaks my heart or not, at least it will be one hell of a story, one hell of a memory. Now, what brings you to my door so early in the fucking morning?”
Haakon scowled. “We have a prince to rescue.”
“Again?” Tormund flashed him a grin. “Can this damsel not get out of his own way? And you never know, Marduk might enjoy being mated.”
“Árdís says we need to protect the treaty between Rurik and Harald at all costs. But we also need to bring Marduk home.”
“Why?” Tormund slowed at his cousin’s tone. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s news.”
This time, he wished he’d brought his damned sword. “What kind of news?”
“You were right. There’s trouble on the wind. Sirius arrived just in time. There was an attempted uprising within the court, and the dreki involved refused to surrender. They almost managed to get their hands on Malin.”
Sirius’s pretty little wife? “What happened?”
“Sirius killed them,” Haakon replied grimly. “All of them. But Árdís said one of them tried to kidnap her. He told her that the queen wanted to repay the debt she owed Árdís.”
Tormund stared at him stupidly. When he’d spoken to Sirius, he’d only been half convinced, but there was a trickle of ice running down his spine. “Amadea is alive?”
Haakon raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. We were all there when we saw her body burned. We all saw Sirius kill her. But somehow…. Árdís thinks she can sense Chaos magic within the court, and if it’s not coming from her….”
The only other dreki who’d been able to control the dangerous magic had been the queen.
“Could she have used her magic to somehow… linger in some sort of spirit form?” He knew little enough about Chaos magic, but he’d seen the dreki spirits haunt the horizon in flares of vivid greens and blues.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do?” He knew his cousin. Haakon would be determined to return to Árdís’s side to protect her.
Haakon tipped his head. “I’m going to insist you get dressed. And then we’re going to go fetch our precious prince, because I need someone who can fly me home.”
“You have my payment?” Bryn asked, one hand resting nonchalantly on the hilt of her sword as she stood in front of the dreki princess.
Solveig tilted her head. “Bold of you to demand such from me, when you betrayed me.” Her eyes narrowed. “I would almost admire the gall if I wasn’t facing a difficult dilemma right now.”
“I merely helped Tormund deliver a message to your father,” Bryn replied. “A simple job. Like the one I performed for you. The one you promised would grant me a certain reward.”
Somehow Solveig managed to recline in a chair as if she was sitting on a golden throne studded with precious jewels, surrounded by a floor littered with the skulls of her enemies. It must be a dreki trait to be able to instantly command a room not your own.
“You argue like dreki.” Solveig smiled and nodded toward a pouch. “But I did give my word. The rest of the gold is inside.”
“I don’t care about the gold,” Bryn said.
Solveig gestured to the small lacquered box beside the pouch with a mocking little twist of a smile.
Bryn opened the box. Inside was a single sheaf of parchment, signed by her enemy’s hand. Final
ly. Her greedy eyes traced the sloped letters, relief filling her as she realized the words were exactly as Solveig had promised. She couldn’t quite hide the tremble in her hands, nor keep her lungs from catching. Everything was here. Everything. “How did you manage it?”
“Róta owed me a debt. This was how she was to repay it.”
It couldn’t have been that easy.
Róta covered her tracks well, and she had to know this confession could be used against her.
Bryn met the princess’s eyes. “My sister is battle spawned. Neither threat nor coercion would have worked, and she is no fool.”
Solveig’s eyes grew distant, as if she pictured the past. “A dreki is a patient foe. And your sister owned but one weakness, which was mine to exploit.” Her smile grew dangerous. “And so, I did. A heart is a treacherous beast, betraying its owner at the most inopportune of times.”
A man then.
Bryn seized the precious piece of parchment. With this, she could clear her name and return to the golden halls of Valhalla. She would be able to return home—finally home—where she could wash the misery of this mortal existence from her skin and forget it forever.
Forget him.
Her smile faltered. And her mind chose that moment to betray her, casting her back into a memory of the night before. Of heated hands and devouring kisses, and afterward, the smooth, gentle stroke of his fingers tracing circles in her hair.
“Better to have no heart,” she said, more to herself, “than to risk such weakness.”
“Indeed,” Solveig purred, running her long fingernails over the arm of the chair. “And such is why I have summoned you. I have another little task for you,”
Bryn tucked the piece of parchment within her shirt. “No. I’m done with such assignments.”
“You haven’t heard what it is.”
“I don’t need to. It has something to do with ensuring Prince Marduk doesn’t choose you, doesn’t it? Tormund told me all about it.”
The other female’s eyes narrowed. “He won’t choose me.”
“Are you really so certain?” Bryn took a slight amount of amusement from the look of consternation that flashed across the implacable Solveig’s face. “The pair of you share a history, and while I’ve heard a hint of it from his lips, I’m fairly certain I haven’t heard the full story. Nor the truth.”
“The prince values his balls,” Solveig snarled. “He won’t choose me. And there’s nothing more to say about the past than that it is dead and buried.”
Bryn cocked her head. It was the first time she’d ever seen Solveig so discomfited.
“No,” she said, stepping away from the table. “I am done. Whatever lies between the two of you, only a fool would step in the middle of it.”
Solveig’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. “There is nothing between us but vengeance and fury.”
“Then why are you so afraid of his choice? Surely, he will choose one of your sisters.”
Solveig’s lips thinned, and she turned toward the window. Restlessness rode her. “One would think so, yes. But I’m not the type of female who likes to dare fate. And Marduk has long been careless of my… my name.”
It wasn’t what the princess meant to say, Bryn was sure of it.
A heart is a treacherous beast, after all.
And though she had no further inkling of all that lay between the princess and the golden prince, she could see the truth of some of it written over the princess’s face. Nothing but a broken heart could produce quite that level of hatred.
And though the princess may not have loved him, some part of her had yearned.
“I’m sorry,” Bryn said quietly, “for I cannot help you.”
Solveig’s fingers tapped on the windowsill. “It is of little matter, Brightfeather,” she finally said, pasting a dark smile on her face as she turned. “As you say, I am sure he would not be so foolish as to choose me. And if he does, then I shall make him regret it.”
Bryn paused outside the tavern, staring up at the sky as her elation slowly died. Redemption burned in her hand. Hope. But also, a weight lingering on her shoulders. A distant reminder of the honor she’d once worn like a mantle.
She had what she’d come here for.
She could demand entrance to Valhalla and thrust the proof of her innocence in the face of her sisters. She could look Róta in the eye as she finally managed to repay her sister’s betrayal.
And then what?
Bryn looked down at the confession again, her hands starting to quiver.
She would have her name back. She would have her place in the Golden Host back. But every day she would look herself in the mirror and know that whilst she had been innocent of the charges laid upon her, she had lost her sense of honor in this mortal realm.
The job was finished, but her redemption was not complete.
Tomorrow, Marduk would stand before the Sadu clan and pledge his troth to one of the daughters of King Harald. Tomorrow, if he chose the path Bryn thought he might, then Solveig would seek bloodied vengeance.
And Tormund would be there.
She knew it as well as she knew her own name.
She’d seen him lift his axe many a time to intervene for the helpless. He wouldn’t merely watch matters play out, he would try to stop it, if he could.
Bryn swallowed the lump in her throat, carefully folding the confession and tucking it into the small pouch hanging at her throat.
Try as she might to bury the past between them, she knew, in the depths of her heart, that the pair of them weren’t finished yet.
Only when Tormund was safely clear of this entire mess could she tip her chin in farewell and walk away without a heavy heart. She owed him that.
Which meant she was once more going to stand in Solveig’s path.
Fuck.
Nineteen
A choice between three daughters.
Marduk bowed his head before the king. Tormund had caught his arm in the hallway outside and told him they needed time. And yet, he was running out of chances to escape. He needed to find Ishtar before it was too late, but it felt like Fate stood before him, blocking his path at every turn.
"Choose," Harald said. "And there shall be no war between our clans.”
The knot in Marduk's gut tightened as he considered the three dreki princesses before him.
Sweet Aslaug, with her golden hair and the way she nibbled on her lip as she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. She smiled when she saw she'd caught his attention, and he knew he'd find welcome there.
And a quiet demand.
A mate who would insist upon his presence.
One who would require more of him than he had to give. It made him a little queasy. Marduk’s restless heart yearned to keep moving. He'd never been able to settle, more so now he knew what lay out there in the world. And yet Aslaug bore the look of a woman who desired a hearth and home and little dreki babies.
Lots of little dreki babies.
His lungs clenched in his chest, as if the mere thought could suffocate him.
To her left knelt fair Siv, who studiously avoided his gaze, her red hair knotted into a tight braid. Tension limned her shoulders, but he caught the brief flicker of her gaze, before her eyes darted away again. Not me, not me, not me, her very posture shouted.
And right at the end, Solveig.
Raven of hair and heart—and glaring at him so fiercely he felt the dreki growl within him at the challenge he saw in her face. It had always been like that between them; a battle of wills. Defiance. Neither of them able to step away from a challenge. It was what had made him leave in such a hurry, for their last encounter had left him wondering if she was going to kill him, or... something else. He caught himself before he took a step toward her, but the king's eyes narrowed as he noted the shift of Marduk's weight.
The brush of her mind slid over his like the flutter of faint wings. Marduk opened his psychic shields.
"Don't you dare look at me like that. If y
ou choose me, I swear I shall spend the rest of my life making you regret it," Solveig growled.
He couldn't help himself: "Somewhat arrogant of you to presume I'd even look your way. And I already regret meeting you."
"Trust me. You know nothing of regret. Yet."
He returned his attention to Aslaug.
Sweet. Willing. Gentle.
Practically beaming under his perusal.
His balls felt like they sucked up into his abdomen.
And he couldn't help looking at Solveig again.
"I would break Aslaug's heart."
"I will cut yours from your chest if you even think about it! I have another sister."
"Who trembles at the mere thought of mating with me. Would you condemn them both to such a fate?"
Two spots of fury ignited in her cheeks as Solveig stared straight ahead, seemingly ignoring him.
Back to Aslaug. The right choice. The perfect choice, if one was thinking in terms of an alliance.
But when he opened his mouth, he couldn't speak her name.
His treacherous gaze returned, once more, to Solveig.
"Don't you dare."
She stood so stiffly, she had to interpret his interest.
Solveig would never make demands of him.
She would never want his heart.
Unless it was on a stake.
They could live separate lives.
An alliance in name only.
His gaze drifted, just briefly, to her thin lips. Hardly the sort of woman to inspire lustful thoughts—she was no beauty like her sisters—and yet there was something about her that drew his gaze.
His restless dreki soul—which yearned to wander forever—twitched within him.
Solveig's cheekbones cut like the sharp ledge of granite in a fjord, her eyes as dark and fierce as a falcon. She was a sheer force of nature; uncontainable; unconquerable; a never-ending challenge.
He'd climbed the highest peaks in this world, far to the south, where the freezing winds cut his skin to the bone. Flown over volcanoes deep within the South Pole, where Fire whispered so deep within the surface he could barely hear it. Thrown himself off a cliff in mortal form, the wind rushing past him as he plummeted toward the sharp rocks below, shifting shape at the last minute. Pushing, always pushing the boundaries of what was possible.
